2,000 Miles for Nectar: The Sweetness of Perspective
I surveyed the space surrounding my car,
while simultaneously driving the heel of my boot into the snow. My effort left no impression. Clarity arrived quickly—that’s why my neighbor suggested using the steel shovel first, to break through the ice-snow. The entire area around my car was inaccessible. My eyes glossed back and forth over the frozen ground, searching for a starting place. There was none. So I seized the opportunity to create my own path—my own beginning.
In time, a system formed. Only the splashing of dirty snow from passing cars pulled me from my rhythm. Thirty minutes passed more quickly than I expected. I wasn’t sore or achy, but I could feel my muscles working. I named each one I felt, as if extending gratitude. The sensation was comforting—something within me longed for more. A quiet pride began to surface, emerging like a mountain coming into view, as I traced the evidence of my progress.
—
When I shared with a friend that I was training for my first Muay Thai fight this spring, he responded without hesitation:
“Well, that makes sense—you’ve been fighting your whole life.”
In that moment, my world reorganized itself. The perspective felt like a baptism. I laid my head back and allowed the waters to wash over every rising memory.
Flashbacks came intrusively, yet respectfully, one by one. Each memory landed in a different and unfamiliar place within my heart. I watched them closely, eager to examine each from this new vantage point.
—
Lying in bed at night, when we lived in the last trailer on the left off Royal Tartan Lane, I listened intently to the arguments between my mom and stepdad. They were most often inspired by him coming home too late. When their arguing subsided—and I was no longer worried for my mom’s safety—my attention would drift to the ceiling above me. I would slip into the landscape of another world, one I was building.
They were plastic stars, glued in place and limited by the ceiling, but I could see their magic. They were my starting place. My beginning.
—
My brother and sisters had long since left the pool. I pretended to still be playing, but really, I was watching and waiting—scheming for the right moment to emerge, unscathed by wandering eyes. This belly. These boobs. We were in Orlando, Florida for the first time. I was in sixth grade and “supposed” to be having the time of my life.
Instead, it was my nightmare come true: standing in a pool, shirtless, surrounded by people. It wasn’t just the weight that had come on gradually and relentlessly since third grade—it was that my attempts to control it through diet never worked. I felt trapped in a body I didn’t recognize or understand. When I believed the attention of others had faded, I rushed out, arms wrapped tightly around my chest and stomach.
—
The name of the Airbnb didn’t strike me until I was almost there: Little Forest Tiny Cottages. As I twisted and turned along the back roads of Virginia, nostalgia raced alongside me. I love the conveniences of the city, but my country roots run deep. I pressed the gas pedal, testing how confidently I could take the next curve.
Little Forest Tiny Cottages, I said aloud. Then again. I traced each word slowly with my finger in the air.
When I arrived, sheep stood guard on both sides of the driveway, their eyes fixed on me as I stepped out of the car. They watched my every move as I began to unpack. I wondered about their nature—were they aggressive? Would they chase me?
As I mindfully oriented myself to the property and the two cottages that would be mine for the evening and morning, my gaze was drawn to the mountains painted across one of the cottage walls. I inhaled the fresh country air. My exhale marked the beginning of distance—between myself and all that I was preparing to leave behind in 2025.
I stood there, for what could have been a minute or thirty, held by the view and by the quiet permission to let the year fall where it must.
—
I stepped back and admired my efforts. It wasn’t just pride or accomplishment I felt after digging my car out. As I worked, a parallel revealed itself with undeniable clarity: you, too, were brought out from an inaccessible place.
The stars once pressed snugly against the ceiling of a trailer were the same stars I gazed up at on New Year’s Eve in the middle of Virginia—only now, they stretched across a boundless sky. I took small sips of champagne, toasting the dreamer who refused to let limitation and confinement strangle curiosity. The one who longed to see more than the tiny world available back then.
A season of body shame during my formative years was not a weakness—it was a building block of love. I had always interpreted my arms wrapped tightly around myself as a sign of insecurity. But just as Muay Thai drills me, again and again, to protect my face and head—to keep my guard up—I now see that I was protecting my heart. My most vulnerable and valuable commodity.
—
My eyes were closed, but I could still see.
The narrator said, “The rufous hummingbird travels over 2,000 miles to reach Grand Teton National Park—just for the nectar provided there.”
I imagined this tiny, three-inch bird, its wings a blur of motion. I pictured the landscapes it must pass over, the terrain and weather it must endure during migration. I wondered what compels it forward—what keeps it from giving up.
And then, finally, its arrival.
A tiny bird in a grand place.
The nectar.
How sweet it must taste. How much sweeter it must be—because of the 2,000 miles it took to get there.
—
My hope for you in 2026 is that you don’t miss it.
That just because it arrives as a whisper, or wrapped in something small or seemingly ordinary, you recognize the power held within.
We are all being summoned this year to see our lives from a new vantage point—to climb toward broader understanding.
And you will know when you’ve arrived.
Because it will be sweet.
You will look back and understand that the digging mattered. That the humble beginnings, the obscurity, the shame, the fear, the anxiety—none of it was wasted.
All along, life has been preparing you to go the distance.
To spread your wings like the hummingbird.
To travel farther than you thought you could.